


Fine Tuning

by IanMuyrray, WhiskyNotTea



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, NSFW, Smut, Stranger Sex, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15286746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanMuyrray/pseuds/IanMuyrray, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiskyNotTea/pseuds/WhiskyNotTea
Summary: Fergus, running in from the rain smacks into Roger the bloke who sings at the pub on Friday nights …





	Fine Tuning

_Merde._

_You could never trust the Scottish weather, it seemed._

A raindrop found Fergus’ cheek, rolling down onto his lips, the moment he walked out of the Cafe Piccante. With a frown on his face, he looked first towards the ominous sky and then at the takeaway fish and chips he had in hand. He couldn’t remember when he had eaten last, and his stomach protested violently in realization of his negligence. With a sigh, he decided that even rain sprinkled fish and chips would be better than nothing.

Fergus hardly had time to do anything as of late. There was so much work to be done to catch the deadline and everybody at Lallybroch worked frantically. He had fallen asleep on the couch again, pages upon pages of the distillery’s latest sales scattered on his stomach and on the floor. Without conscious thought, he’d dressed quickly and left the apartment, desperate for some air, seeking anything that could help him clear his mind.

Food and a stroll across the old town seemed like a great idea for a summer night.

_In Italy, in Greece, in California. Apparently, not in Edinburgh._

He ate quickly as he walked towards the pub, the thought of a cold draft beer pushing him forward. Without paying any mind to the dirty puddles that splashed water on his white sneakers with each forceful stride, Fergus moved along the paved street, almost hearing his mother’s voice chastising him for catching a cold - again.

By the time he reached the pub, his hair was soaked, and droplets landed on his white T-shirt that was almost transparent now, sticking to his body.

The inside of the pub glowed golden orange through the diamond-shaped window panes, spilling a radiant pattern onto the wet sidewalk where he paused, looking in. The window opened to a small stage, cleared of its usual tables and chairs, to make way for live music. A microphone and stool were waiting patiently for their attendant.

An easel near the door proudly displayed the handwritten message _Roger Mac, Oxford Guitarist tonight @ 7PM_ , the white chalk running slightly from the rain.

Pleased to have found entertainment to go with his beer, Fergus tossed the greasy paper basket he held into a nearby bin, its contents completely eaten, and licked salt off his fingertips. He then reached for the iron door handle and pulled the green wooden door wide, stepping into the cozy room. He shook out his black curls, causing water droplets to trickle down his neck and ears.

The pub was busy, and he shouldered his way through the crowd at the bar, waving his hand to get the attention of the bartender. She nodded at him in acknowledgement.

“What can I get ye?” She was blonde and very pretty, her shirt tight in all the right places. She placed two foaming beers on the counter for a waiting customer.

“Guinness, _s’il vous plait._ ”

She wiped her hands on her apron then grabbed a pint glass. “Opening a tab?”

Fergus shrugged and pulled his card out of the wallet from his back pocket. “Might as well.”

As he waited for his drink, he plucked the damp t-shirt off his skin, the wet fabric chilling him even in the pleasant atmosphere of the pub.

“Raining outside, is it?” asked a big, bearded man on the stool next to Fergus. The man’s hand grasped a nearly empty whisky glass, the golden color of the alcohol complimenting the surrounding ambience.

“ _Oui, monsieur,_ ” Fergus said automatically, grabbing his pint and turning away to find a table.

Or at least that was what he intended to do. Instead, he bumped into another bearded man, much younger this time, with brown locks falling across his forehead, just above his emerald green eyes. It had been a while since Fergus’ attention was captured by a gaze in such a way. There was a kindness there, together with a spark that made his skin burn.

“Pardon,” he said, and his eyes widened in the realization that half of his beer was now on the man’s dark blue T-shirt, gluing it onto a toned chest. “ _Ah Dhia!_ ” Fergus whispered, his father’s words coming to him in times of surprise, before continuing with a series of “ _Je suis désolé,_ I’m so sorry, I didna see you,” all the languages and accents available, making the situation seem even more ridiculous.

Fergus blushed. The lad simply smiled.

He then placed his hand on Fergus’ upper arm, calm and composed, before speaking in a thick Scottish accent. “Dinna worry, mate. ‘Tis dark blue, aye? Nothing is going to show.”

“ _Oui_ ,” Fergus nodded, a shy smile lurking on his lips. “Let me buy you a beer? To make it up to you?” He offered, wishing he could somehow compensate for his clumsiness. He really needed to sleep. Waiting for the distillery deal to be sealed had made him a nervous wreck.

The lad smiled again, his big hand lightly squeezing Fergus’ arm before leaving it, the fingers that touched him now running in the pecan brown hair. “No worries. Drink is free for me tonight but thank ye.” He winked and moved towards the blonde bartender, his order lost in the buzz of the pub that was now full of patrons.

Fergus looked at him with a frown on his face but decided that there was not much more he could do. With a sigh, he peeled his eyes away from the broad shoulders and headed to a table at the side of the stage.

Five minutes until the performance was set to start.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He unlocked the screen to find three new emails from his cousin Ian about their new marketing ideas and a text from his sister inviting him over for Chinese and a movie.

_Too late._

Seated on a stool with one leg crossed over the other, Fergus perused his social media ( _availability “offline” to avoid anyone who might try to contact him_ ) while he waited. His pint glass on the table was chilly to the touch, and he absently ran his fingers along the side of it.

A shadow passed out of the corner of his eye, and a moment later Fergus heard steps on the small dais. Raising his head, he was transfixed, staring as the lad in the blue T-shirt placed his beer on the upright piano along the wall.

_He_ was the singer. The _Oxford Guitarist_. An Oxford Guitarist with a thick Scottish accent, it seemed.

With the confidence of a regular performer, the lad bent down unlocking a nearby guitar case, before sitting on the stool in front of the microphone. One long leg perched on a rung of his chair, nestled into the curve of the guitar. He tuned the instrument, studying it carefully and finessing its strings with expert precision. A lock of brown hair fell forward, appearing soft and silky in the warm pub light.

The lad, Roger Mac, must have felt him staring– he looked up to meet Fergus’ gaze and smirked. Fergus swallowed, feeling a warmth creep up his chest and neck that had nothing to do with alcohol, but he did not look away. Instead, he took a risk. He smiled, gave a wink.

There was a zap, a connection, as if Fergus had traced his fingers across a plasma globe, enticing an electric current to bridge between two spheres. Roger Mac winked back, his eyes crinkling pleasantly at the corners.

Fergus dropped the phone next to his beer, the rest of the world forgotten for the night. His eyes got lost in tracing Roger’s dancing fingers running on the chords, pushing and caressing, eliciting one of the most beautiful melodies he’d ever heard.

He imagined those long fingers on his body, trailing paths like no one else had done before, nails grazing and leaving red marks behind, only to softly trace them afterwards. Eliciting a melody of gasps and moans.

His throat was dry. Fergus reached for his pint, hoping its temperature would dampen the heat he felt rising in his body. The moment he set the beer on the table again, licking the foam from his upper lip, Roger Mac turned his head to look at him. Their eyes locked and Fergus saw him subconsciously licking his lips too. It was a tiny detail, but it was enough to make his cock twitch in his jeans with anticipation.

It would be torture to wait until the performance was over.

Roger Mac finished the first song, waiting for the applause to quiet down. He then spoke in a low voice, thanking everybody for the warm welcome and wishing them a great night. When he said ‘great night, his eyes landed on Fergus, taking his breath away. Brown locks were falling on Roger’s forehead and Fergus longed to brush them away, so he could focus on the burning green eyes.

Running a hand through his own dark brown hair, he swallowed hard and watched Roger play the intro of the second song. It was only an acoustic guitar, but it was enough to fill him with more emotions than he could handle.

When Roger hummed softly along with the music, Fergus couldn’t stop his hand from traveling down on his jeans. This was cruel. He was so hard. He ran his fingers over his erection with his eyes closed, and he imagined having Roger humming next to his ear, his voice going through his skin and straight to his cock.

He came back to reality with a jolt, feeling that someone was looking at him. His eyes found Roger’s and he saw him staring at his lips before his gaze moved on to Fergus’ neck, his chest, his abs, his crotch. It felt like he was undressing him, and Fergus shivered, still fully dressed and now even hotter. With a nod to the waitress, he ordered another beer and prayed for courage.

Roger sang for more than an hour. Fergus’ phone buzzed more than once against the wooden table, but the vibration was lost in the current that ran through him, the attraction to Roger’s guitar stronger than anything else. Fergus felt the dry stout’s bitter taste on the back of his throat as he focused on Roger lit by the soft yellow lights around him on the dais.

Fergus hurried out of the pub after the last song, desperate for some cool air to clear his thoughts. He couldn’t leave, though. He had to talk to him. He had to find out if the whole night was simply his own wishful thinking. Leaning against the wall, he waited. If Roger wanted to talk to him, he’d come.

_Make him come._

“So here ye are,” Fergus heard him saying, as if Fergus was in that same spot every night, waiting for him.

“Oui, here I am,” he whispered and opened his eyes to meet the green ones again.

“Ye must be the most clumsy, scatterbrained person I’ve met as of late. Wi’ terrible taste in beer. Guinness isna even Scottish,” he teased with a smile, handing Fergus the phone he had forgotten in the pub.

“Well, I’m not Scottish. And you must be the most thick-accented _Oxford_ guitarist I’ve ever met in my life,” he retorted, looking at Roger running his hand in his dark locks.

He needed to run his hands through those locks, too.

“Care to join me for a walk?” Roger asked, the case of his guitar hanging from his broad shoulder. “It helps me calm down after a performance.”

They walked through the city, dark and quiet in the late night, their arms brushing against each other. Fergus was watching Roger intensely, unable to take his eyes off him. The way Roger’s steps drew him closer to Fergus, how he was licking and biting his bottom lip, how he breathed deeply when their eyes found each other. He tried hard not to look down at Roger’s jeans.

_Not hard enough._

The bulge he saw made his mouth open before he realized what he was saying. “My apartment is pretty close. You want to come?” Before Roger could reply, Fergus added, “For a dram.”

Their pace quickened after that, their bodies spurred on by desire.

They looked at each other in the elevator’s mirror, as Fergus ran his fingers along Roger’s arm. It was barely a touch, but Roger’s erection was clear enough to draw Fergus’ gaze.

Fergus unlocked the door, then strode quickly into his small, dark flat, setting his keys on the counter and flicking on a light. A white flash glared around them in the small entry, linoleum tile yellowed beneath their feet. Pizza boxes littered the coffee table, and dust coated the floor. Fergus gave Roger an apologetic shrug for his home’s state of disarray, but Roger gave no indication that he cared.

They were still, staring intensely at each other. Fergus took a deep breath through his nose, held it to the count of three, then released.

“This way,” he pushed out, nodding to the bedroom around the corner, leading the way down the hallway.

Furnishings throughout the space were bare, spartan, but it lacked nothing; it was home. The bed was supported by a simple metal frame. No headboard. Bedding was still mussed from when Fergus rose this morning, a dark blue blanket over scattered black sheets. There was one end table to the side of the bed, cheaply made, and upon it sat a small lamp Fergus had thrifted last year.

He lived alone, but this room had seen many guests. Bringing someone into this space was routine, but tonight’s guest gave him pause.

Fergus’ gaze flicked from the bed over to Roger, admiring him, noting how beautiful he was.

Roger Mac, the Scottish guitarist from Oxford, whose fingers danced across the frets to create beautiful melodies that lingered even after the sound had faded to nothing. Who towered inside his bedroom, whose emerald eyes evoked the sky after a thunderstorm.

The seconds were crawling by, one after another, and Fergus felt as if he were fighting the unstoppable pull of a magnet, ready to give in, ready to spring forward.

With two steps forward, Fergus pressed his mouth to Roger’s, pinning him against the door. He sucked hard and bit his teeth into the flesh, only to lick afterwards the marks of his own passion. Roger pulled him closer with both hands on Fergus’ ass and rubbed himself against him, swallowing Fergus’ moans. Moving down Fergus’ neck, Roger’s lips traced a delicate curve while his fingers found the hem of Fergus’ shirt, pulling it up and off.

Fergus did the same, pulling Roger’s shirt off before weaving his fingers swiftly through Roger’s brown locks, just as soft and silky as they had looked onstage. Roger reached down, running his big hand over Fergus’ erection.

“I can’t…” Fergus breathed, Roger’s tongue searching for his from the moment he left it. “I need to…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, instead he moved his hand from Roger’s hair to his cock, cupping it over the jeans, feeling the growth of him in his palm. A groan escaped Fergus’ mouth and vibrated in the air between them, as he unbuttoned the fly of Roger’s jeans. Slipping his hand in the tight boxers, he touched him, feeling his knees wobble and his own cock protesting for an escape. Roger whimpered when Fergus’ fingers curled around his balls, and he unzipped Fergus’ denim slowly, his index finger grazing his length over his boxers, teasing him. Fergus involuntarily moved his hips forward, demanding more as he traced his thumb over Roger’s tip, spreading the precum on the smooth skin. With a moan, Roger took Fergus’ cock out of his boxers and filled his hand with him, whispering a “Fuck,” that was almost inaudible.

They were hard and ready, but they both stopped, looking down on their cocks rubbing, hearing their breaths become faster and faster. Fergus took a step back and flexed his body towards the dresser, grabbing the lube. With a big, slick hand he grabbed both cocks, bringing them together, long fingers holding them for a moment. He started to stroke them both with slow moves, and he couldn’t take his eyes away, seeing and feeling Roger’s sleek cock rubbing against his own enveloped in his hand, as Roger’s breath was hot on his lips, their desire ready to consume them both.

They were close, so close, but Fergus couldn’t stop. Roger took his hand from Fergus’ crease and put it over Fergus’ fingers, following him for one stroke, and a second one… And then, taking his eyes from their cocks, he paused their moves.

“I want more. I need more,” Roger said with a gasp.

With a groan, Fergus pushed Roger toward the bed, knocking him back at the edge. Roger landed with a soft bounce and began pulling at Fergus’ jeans and boxers, sliding the clothing down over his hips and thighs. Roger cupped him, massaged him, brought his head down and lightly flicked the tip with his tongue. Fergus sighed, and with a loud hum, pushed Roger onto his back on the bed.

Fergus paused for a moment before he kneeled on the bed and traced his fingertips down Roger’s chest, circling his navel, teasing his hips. Fergus saw Roger’s heart racing in his throat, saw the wild, desperate look in his eyes.

He leaned down, his teeth grazing the musician’s stomach, his hands grabbing Roger’s waistband, pulling down.

Roger’s chest and arms were lightly tufted with dark hair, freckles here and there on tanned skin. Fergus stood, admiring the naked man from the end of the bed.

Roger relaxed, stretching like a panther, and placed his hands behind his head like a pillow. His biceps flexing smoothly, he grinned mischievously at Fergus, his cock petulantly poking upwards.

_Well then._

Stepping out of his jeans, Fergus climbed onto the bed, laying on his side next to Roger, charting out esoteric patterns on Roger’s chest, leaving behind shivers and goosebumps. Fergus smirked. If Roger was going to tease him, to play pillow princess, Fergus was going to torture him.

Fergus leaned over and kissed Roger down his neck, his shoulders, his nipples, his body, teasing with tongue, with lips, sucking, biting, nipping, exhaling. Love bites lingered on Roger’s skin, blooming ruby red and then fading to a blush pink. Some marks stayed longer than others, promising lasting purple smudges.

Roger tried to keep still, waiting, indulging in the attention, but Fergus’ ministrations left him writhing. Fergus bit down, his tongue flicking out to touch the warm skin near Roger’s cock. Roger’s hand came down to grip Fergus’ head, his hips bucking.

Still biting lightly, Fergus chuckled deep and low, moving his hand to grasp Roger’s erection. Roger let out a sharp breath as Fergus danced around his cock with his mouth, teasing first with flicks of the tongue. Luxurious and careful, he upped his tempo with a twist of his hand. Roger smelled wonderful, and he buried his face in Roger’s pubic bone as he caught his breath. He let out a hum of appreciation, letting his subdued voice vibrate and purr.

Roger’s hands were urgent in Fergus’ hair, trying to tug him upwards, digging his nails in.

But Fergus didn’t let him and looked up. He saw Roger watching him, his brow creased in concentration, in a plea for more, more, something more.

Then, with grace and speed, Roger sprang forward and flipped Fergus onto the bed, pinning him on his back. The heat from Roger’s body felt like cashmere, sensual and roaring with extravagance.

When Roger lifted himself up on his forearms, Fergus seized the moment to stretch. A tease, a chuckle. Roger growled, and in a hasty imitation of Fergus’ touches, left red marks with teeth and white ones with fingers.

Roger rocked back to his knees, lifted Fergus’ legs up and out, and stroked himself. Fergus’ heart pounded in his ribcage, and he angled his hips up, his own cock remonstrating against being overlooked. _Not yet._

Roger reached over to the lube, spread some over his thumb. And gently, softly, lightly, he pressed his thumb to Fergus’ ass.

Fergus gasped.

Roger looked up. “That okay?” he cooed, applying pressure.

With a nod from Fergus, Roger pressed against him more firmly. He pushed Fergus’ legs further apart and reached to grasp Fergus’ cock.

“Mm?” Roger teased, rhythmically stroking with both hands, Fergus’ thoughts drifting away as sensation and pleasure took hold.

Roger pressed against Fergus’ ass, harder this time, entering him with his thumb, resuming the rhythm, and the whole world trembled underneath them.

“Mm!” Fergus cried out, his body beginning to move in sync with Roger’s hands, rocking his hips up with a strong, uncontrollable impulse.

“Do you–?” Roger began.

With a hiss and a groan, Fergus reluctantly pulled away from Roger, rolling onto his stomach as he reached into his end table for a condom. His hands shook with anticipation. He felt Roger’s big hands pulling him back, lining them up, pushing down Fergus’ shoulders and face to meet the sheets.

With a pant, Fergus rubbed his cheek against the cotton sheet, wiggled his hips. After waiting for Roger to put on the condom, he felt hands on his buttocks, warm and alive, spreading him apart. He heard Roger spread lube over his hand, heard the sound of Roger’s slick hand stroke, stroke, stroking the cock he waited for.

_Oh, god, please._

Roger pushed up his cock against Fergus’ ass. The pressure was slow, steady, reassuring. Roger was responsive, courteous to Fergus’ reactions. Patient.

And then– _Merde!_

Fergus was certain his vision blacked out from the sensation, or stars flashed before his eyes, or that he had fainted. But he hadn’t. He was suspended in a vicious, desirable, exquisite torture. Fergus cried out, loudly, as Roger began to pull, push, pull, push, his hands gripping Fergus’ ribs tight.

But this wasn’t enough, wasn’t the connection Fergus had sought. He pushed himself to all fours, glancing over his shoulder to see Roger Mac working him completely.

“Roger…” Fergus purred, and Roger’s eyes met his in understanding.

As if he were made of air, Roger spun Fergus onto his back, shoved his legs apart with a knee, and, making eye contact, gently entered him again. He lay down on top of Fergus and slowly rocked against him, reestablishing the rhythm from earlier, the one that reminded Fergus of music that could only be felt. His slickened hand reached down between them to stroke Fergus.

Fergus pulled Roger’s mouth down to him, pausing when their lips barely touched. They breathed each other in, and Fergus grew lightheaded in Roger’s scent, stars in his vision, Roger’s hand and cock casting their wicked enchantment.

Roger moved faster, and Fergus relished in the feeling of the man. He arched himself upwards, meeting Roger gentle push for gentle push.

Roger crushed his mouth against Fergus’ with such vigor that Fergus’ head sunk down into the mattress. Teeth collided, and tongues met again and again, lips sucked until bright pink. Roger swiped a thumb over the tip of Fergus’ cock as he stroked, causing Fergus to groan and reel against his companion.

Roger was lost, his breath choked with a moan, his eyes clouding over, and Fergus clung to him, feeling the approach of the cliff himself. With Roger’s final shove and groan, Fergus was also flung from the ledge, cast off into a free fall, his orgasm spinning wildly from the inside out.

With a gasp, the men stilled, sturdy reality seeping back into their senses.

Roger peered intently at Fergus, a brown lock falling over his forehead above his green eyes. “How was that for ye?” he asked, still inside.

Fergus sighed contentedly. “That was exactly what I needed.”

Roger Mac laughed and pulled out, discreetly tossing the condom into a bin. He turned to Fergus, who lazed spread on the bed with his eyes closed.

“Tissues?”

“In the bathroom, that way.” Without opening his eyes, Fergus gestured to the left.

He felt the bed shift as Roger Mac stood, and he peeped through half-open lids at Roger’s nakedness, admiring his litheness and beauty. He smiled to himself.

_Merde._

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on OtherOutlanderTales.tumblr.com. A late submission to TheLallybrochLibrary's June 2018 Queerlander Prompt Exchange.


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